


Scheduled Departure

by htebazytook



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Angst, Car Sex, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Romance, Slash, Smut, Texting, Valentine's Day, airport, mcdonalds, mildly rough sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-17
Updated: 2010-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-06 16:29:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obligatory Valentine's Day story.  Sponsored by McDonald's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scheduled Departure

**Title:** Scheduled Departure  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[**htebazytook**](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer:** <—  
 **Pairing:** Zach/Chris  
 **Author's Notes:** Obligatory Valentine's Day story. Sponsored by McDonald's.

 

 

Zach knows what a Number 5 is—that's how bad this has gotten. Seriously. He doesn't think he's eaten at McDonald's this much since he was a kid. And maybe not even then.

Oh yeah, and he's also become intimately familiar with the ingredients and caloric content of several of the dollar menu items. If he was more famous, McDonald's would probably pay him for all the product placement.

He sits down at the nearest, emptiest terminal, grabs a smooshy, isolated seat, sufficiently sufficiently removed from unruly children and potentially crazy people. Bites into his wonderfully greasy McCoronary—

Zach's phone buzzes in his pocket and he grunts and hits _View Later_ , annoyed at the delay in his questionable nourishment and at the apparent hordes of people who _need_ to text him updates on their boredom _now_. I mean, God, his phone charger's been on the fritz and the battery isn't exactly new.

Seconds later Zach gets a phone call instead of a text, but he's too invested in relishing his food to give a crap about it grating on the nerves of the overworked airport employees as it buzzes impatiently away, leaves a glaringly loud voicemail notification in its wake.

Zach sighs, doesn't want to deal with it right now, but he doesn't want to read his book either—too tired to appreciate prose, but not quite comatose enough to be able to talk to Chris about getting pissed.

He hits Chris's speed dial number and braces himself. Chris answers almost immediately:

"Hey! Jeez, I was starting to get worried. Were you like going through security, or—"

"Nope, just attempting to eat."

"Whatevs. Did you get my message? I sent you a text too but I know you don't always get them—"

"Actually, I didn't read it or listen to your voicemail yet since I am currently _calling_ you instead."

"Jeez, calm down. Just _asking_. I mean, it's not like you couldn't eat _and_ listen –"

"You're right. Please allow me to apologize for wanting to eat something after hours of malnourished travel."

"Dude, why are you so pissy? It's Valentine's Day, God . . ."

"Gee, Chris, I don't know why I'm pissed. Maybe it's because you've been pestering me all day when I clearly couldn't answer."

"Uh, yeah, just making sure you're not dead on a highway somewhere. Remind me never to give a shit again."

"Look, I'm sorry you're _bored_ at 8 in the morning, but some of us have work. Why don't you just go back to sleep or something since you, you know, can."

"Woah, okay, excuse me for trying to be civil for once. _Someone_ has to, you know—God forbid you could just let something go for _once_. Ever heard of water under the bridge?"

Zach sighs. "And you wonder why I never pick up."

"Dude, seriously, you don't actually have to be in asshole all the time. It doesn't make you more macho or whatever at the fuck your reasoning there is . . ."

"Oh wow. Yes. Yes, you're right. You're in the right as always and I'm just a big old meanie. Also, I'm curious to know what makes you think my goal in life is to become quote unquote macho."

Silence for a while. Zach scuffles around for his high fructose pop and takes a long, calming drink, like taking a drag on a cigarette. It doesn't work nearly as well. He thinks about Supersize Me and wonders if all the fast food is affecting his already sour mood.

"Chris?" Zach looks at his phone, sees only his background of random pretty snow and no unfairly photogenic picture of Chris. "Oh."

An hour later, after halfheartedly slogging through The Catcher in the Rye only to realize he's reread it far too often and is now just impatient and bored while reading it, he pulls out his silenced phone with a sense of dread.

No new messages.

It takes him by surprise—what to do with all that restless anger he'd been waiting to release over Chris's continued harassment? Zach fights a little flash of disappointment and reads Chris's text from earlier.

 

> I tried to send you a retarded heart Valentine card thing but it won't let me download it. Whatever happy Single's Awareness:

> <3

 

Zach should be touched or something but it only annoys him that Chris has been sitting around surfing the web on his phone while Zach has existed in travel mode for the past 48 hours, sleep deprived and working and having left his razor in a hotel so his jaw is all itchy . . .

Zach calls him anyway.

And it goes to voicemail after one ring. What, so Chris is just sitting by his phone, poised to ignore Zach's calls and sipping his essential, unenhanced black coffee from LA Mill in that stupid, voracious way he does.

Zach calls again just to confirm his suspicions, is satisfied in a bad way when Chris waits two rings this time. So Zach calls again and again, Chris ignoring him exactly one ring later each time, feeds his justification for being annoyed with him.

Zach pulls himself away, knows it's unhealthy and goes in search of some equally unhealthy food instead.

One Double Bypass with Cheese later, Zach decides he'll attempt his book again, and it occurs to him that Holden's cynicism might be rubbing off a little.

It's a combination of guilt and boredom that convinces him to text Chris.

 

>   
> 

> that's how you make a valentine the ghetto, non-iphone way

 

Chris calls him.

"Hey," Zach says.

"Did you listen to my message? Hey, wasn't your flight supposed to leave at 10:25?"

As if on cue, the intercom announces: " _The scheduled departure time for Flight 573, Gate B12, has been delayed. The plane is now due_ —"

"What she said," Zach says.

"Ah. So did you listen to my—?"

" _Nope_. Still haven't, due to the fact that I am, still, opting to actually _talk_ to you instead."

He can hear Chris sigh on the other line. It's not a distraught sort of sigh or even a fed up one—it's harsh and sudden and laced with anger. "I don't even know why I try, Zach, I really don't. Ever since we stopped filming—"

"Yeah, well, that's exactly it, isn't it?"

Chris laughs, not in merriment. "Okay, so, _who's_ idea was it to keep doing this, again? Can you just remind me who it was that was _certain_ our relationship wasn't subject to strain of any kind because we were just too damn meant for each other or chill about it or whatever the fuck—?"

"Mmhmm, yeah, I _coerced_ you to keep fucking me so I could maintain the domestic bliss that is us anymore. Seriously. It's not like we ever talked about this."

"Yes! We didn't talk about it. Just like we don't talk about _anything_ —"

"Oh, Jesus. I don't _listen?_ I'm never home? We never go out dancing anymore? I don't spend enough time with the kids?"

Chris just growls and hangs up.

Later that day when Zach is stranded in another airport and plagued by another bout of boredom, he figures he might as well let Chris know he's alive.

"Hey, I'm alive," Zach tells him, surprised he'd even picked up.

"Thanks for letting me know," Chris says, but it's devoid of sarcasm. "Hey, I was thinking about this—isn't the logo for Southwest a heart with wings?"

Zach glances up. "Oh, yeah. I guess it is. Huh."

"Yeah, so it's basically a Valentine."

". . . I'm having trouble understanding the obsession with Valentine's Day. We're not exactly a sentimental couple."

"Well, we're not exactly a couple," Chris points out.

Zach makes a noncommittal noise, sinks lower in the much less squishy seats at this terminal. He had been too zoned out to locate a Starbucks, and was thus still half-human. Whatever, it made traveling less stressful. He'd _refused_ to stop at the McDonald's he'd seen on the flat escalator thing on principle. And also based on his reluctance to walk, like, using his actual legs.

"That's all you have to say?"

Zach scrubs a hand over his face, still shifting around in search of comfort. "I dunno, Chris, what do you want me to say? What can I say that won't propel you into a self-righteous fit?"

"Well, fuck, maybe a simple Happy Valentine's Day would suffice. Crazy notion, I know . . ."

Zach blinks. "Huh? Wait, _that's_ what this is about? You're pissed because I didn't take you on a swan paddle boat through the Tunnel of Love and ask you to be my Valentine? I mean, do you even know the actual historical context of St. Valentine? I mean—"

" _Shut up._ Just shut up. God, I—" Chris cuts himself off and Zach gets the impression he's collecting himself. It wakes his Zach up a little. "Just . . . would it kill you to act like you don't loathe my company? Apart from when I have your cock in my mouth, of course."

"I don't hate you, Chris. Jeez. I knew this would happen if we didn't put an end to this after filming, but _you_ are the one who wouldn't listen. I never—"

" _You_ are _determined_ for whatever the fuck this fucked up thing we have is to fail, so you don't even deign to _give_ it a chance."

Zach clears his throat for something to do while he ignores how plausible that sounds. "We never agreed to let this become more than sex. We never talked about—"

"Yeah, I know." And Chris sounds more tired than bitchy. "We never _really_ talk about anything."

An announcement blares over the intercom and Zach seizes the opportunity. "Gotta go," he says, hangs up.

By the time Zach's boarded the plane he's thought of something to redeem himself. "You know," he says, after Chris answers on the penultimate ring, "If _you_ had to work, I wouldn't dramatically declare that you did it out of subconscious commitment issues or to avoid me on Valentine's Day or something. Just saying."

"No, but you'd find something else."

"Okay, _why_ is it always _my_ fault?"

"Oh, it never is for long. You never waste time and making sure I know how much of a nuisance my very existence is to you, that's for sure . . ."

Zach can't hold back: "Oh my _fucking_ God," he says, not exactly quietly in the middle of a crowded plane. "Can we please just break up and fucking get it over with?"

Silence from Chris, disapproving looks from people around him in their festive pink ensembles and eating their little heart shaped candies. A flight attendant with fucking butterfly heart clips in her hair glares at him over an emergency procedure pamphlet.

Zach turns himself toward the window and away from the masses. "Chris?"

"Yeah. Nice knowing you," Chris says, hangs up.

Zach listens to Brahms for almost the entire flight. It's complex enough to hold his interest and predictable enough for him to doze. Music with lyrics would be a bad thing right now—it would supply him with feelings and inappropriate reactions and none of them would be really real.

He's turned off his phone so he can't figure out what time it is, but they're not quite close enough to landing for him to stare blankly out the window on Valentine's Day with nothing but his thoughts so he shuffles through his music. Lands on a Gershwin prelude and remembers Chris chiding him for not having more Gershwin— _I mean, hello_ —and Zach rolling his eyes and saying it was on his to-do list after showering and eating and meeting with his agent and what, was Chris a despairing, out of work actor with nothing better to do than instruct Zach on how to organize his life? Didn't Chris have, places to go and franchises to conquer, or something?

. . . Zach skips the Gershwin, ends up with Symphonie Fantatique to stare out the window to and is never once reminded of the time he compared Chris's eyes to the weird gradient blue of the stratospheric sky and they'd then proceeded to butcher Shakespeare and John had rolled his eyes at them and Simon had advised them to _Just bonk each other, already_ and they'd shared this smug, knowing look that had had Chris's eyes bright as the sky and Zach's heart racing.

*

Zach's phone won't turn back on.

Let me rephrase that: _Zach's phone won't turn back on._ And he booked the wrong fucking flight, apparently. He spares a good, long flare of anger attempting to blame it on Chris being distracting when Zach had been on Priceline, even tries to blame it on William Shatner for assuring him the lowest price was being negotiated just for Zach . . .

He eventually gives up and just blames Gene Roddenberry.

His fucking phone is dead and he only has enough change for one phone call and, holy crap, he's never actually _used_ a pay phone before.

The pay phone accepts Zach's change despite the universe's vendetta against him and that's about the time he realizes he doesn't actually know anybody's phone number except his old home phone growing up. That, and . . .

He notices a bright red flyer on the pay phone, advertising a bake sale to benefit Haiti and strewn with hearts and idiotic cupids and _fuck_. _Why?_

Zach dials. God, there is _no way_ he'll pick up . . .

"Hello? Who is this?"

Oh, yeah. No caller ID. "It's me. Don't hang up."

"Huh? Wait— _Zach?_ Wait, so, you seriously went to the trouble to call me from an unknown number? I mean, _seriously?_ Jesus Christ. Okay, I'm hang—"

"Stranded! Wait! God. I took the wrong flight or something and—"

"So? What do you want me to do about it? Use your fucking GPS or," and he gasps, " _customer service_."

"My phone died, dammit. Just go look up flights to LAX for me."

"Oh my God, you're in a fucking airport, aren't you? Do I look like fucking airport personnel to you? What the _fuck?_ "

"I'm _not_ in an airport, Chris. God, fuck you. I got a bus to presumably get home because you dropped me off before, if you remember, so I wasn't about to make you pick me up, um, now that— _now_ , and—"

"Zach, you have other friends, don't you? I'm really hanging up now."

" _Wait!_ My fucking phone died and yours is the only number I can remember. Just go online and help me figure out—"

"Take a goddamn cab. Goodbye, Zach."

*

Zach decides to blame Starbucks _and_ McDonald's, because the airport people are nice but the Starbucks employees don't appreciate his elaborate orders and the McDonald's employees tend to favor Zach's comprehensive knowledge of their promotional deals and pricing adjustments with these really, really pitying looks.

See, if Zach had been awake/not poisoned by a Heart Attack Wrap, he would have realized he was on the wrong plane. And yeah, yelling at Chris during the announcements may have contributed, but he can't handle thinking about Chris anymore today.

It's dark when Zach finally makes it to Los Angeles, which doesn't (Zach tells himself defensively) really look all that different from every other airport ever. Dammit.

The first thing he does is stop at McDonald's. He's too tired of today—of fucking Valentine's Day, God . . .— to worry about the effect of more unhealthy food on his strung out, emotionally drained state of body and mind. But when he arrives at the front of the line and opens his mouth to order his attention is stolen by a laugh.

He turns to see a couple waiting for their food, bedecked with flowers and smiles and holding hands and just generally glowing. It makes Zach a little sick to his stomach, so he leaves the line and heads for baggage claim, craving something a little more healthy, anyway.

Zach is watching the suitcases go by, becoming slightly hypnotized by their inexorable cycle, the hum of the machine, when he notices movement on the other side of the carousel. Someone gathering up their luggage and rolling his way. Zach doesn't bother to blink his eyes back into focus until the guy is standing right in front of him and—

"Chris," Zach states, wondering if he's fallen sleep on his feet and is now conjuring up hallucinations.

"Here's your bag, idiot," Chris says, rolling it closer to him, grabbing Zach's hand to wrap it around the handle and not removing his own hand, letting it remain to stroke Zach's wrist. "You look beat."

Zach just continues to blink at him, probably imagining that Chris's bright sky-like eyes are weary and red rimmed. "Happy Valentine's Day," Zach says.

Chris's mouth quirks, threatens to break into a smile and Zach can hear it in his voice: "Come on."

Zach's still too out of it to do much other than follow Chris out to his car, studies Chris's standard issue comfy cardigan and white T-shirt and becomes slightly mesmerized by the way the fabric of his sweatpants clings to his ass. Chris looks incomplete without the sunglasses, looks unrecognizable without his confidence—his shoulders slightly hunched and his eyes avoiding Zach's.

He can't sort out where exactly their relationship stands in the maze of blame and resentment they've landed themselves in. And it's impossible to think of the correct assortment of words when they reach the car and Zach's suitcase rolls to a halt.

Chris pops the trunk and Zach heaves his suitcase in, closes the trunk manually and finds Chris staring at him from across the car. Zach watches him glance around and decides that it's enough—makes it so they're on the same side of the car and kissing.

Chris emits sweet little sounds into Zach's mouth, and whether they're of protest or agreement they still set Zach's blood afire. He presses Chris against the car door, licks into his mouth to more music from Chris's throat and hears the car keys jangle to the pavement. Chris pulls him closer, hands fisted in Zach's jacket while his mouth responds to him beautifully.

Zach hears a car start up on the other side of the lot and steps back, although Chris makes it difficult with fingers tracing Zach's lips and jaw and toying with his hair.

"You taste good," Chris says. "Starbucks?"

"McDonald's iced coffee," Zach corrects.

Chris laughs, bends to retrieve the car keys and unlock the doors. "I think you have a problem," he says, turning to get in the car.

"I know. I'm gonna stop though. I'm fucking sick of . . . you know, McDonald's," Zach tells him, pressing him up against the car again before he can get the door open. Kissing the tempting, fragrant juncture of Chris's neck and shoulder.

Chris _mm_ 's and leans back into him. "The sooner you let me go the sooner we can get to your place," Chris says.

Zach grinds into him, sleepiness morphing easily into arousal—the sudden onslaught of Chris in the flesh, his scent, his voice without all that static in the way . . . Zach can't think, bites Chris's earlobe before sucking it between his lips.

Chris shivers. "I'll speed," he promises, breathless now.

"Just get in the back," Zach says into his ear.

Chris shivers again and does it, drags Zach in after him. He starts to lean awkwardly into the front seat to fiddle with the heat or something and Zach has to pull him back, suddenly terribly impatient.

"It's California," Zach says, urges Chris closer until he's mostly straddling him, runs his hands up Chris's chest and leans in to taste his lips. "I'll keep you warm."

Chris kisses back with such enthusiasm, with his tongue hot and insistent and intertwining with Zach's, that it makes Zach's eyes roll back a little and gives him a glimpse of the automatic light on the roof of the car framing Chris's head like a halo before it fades and leaves them in purplish darkness.

Chris's mouth meanders down Zach's neck, plucking buttons away to kiss at his chest and Zach runs his fingers through Chris's short hair while he tries to catch his breath. When Chris reaches for Zach's belt and presses the heel of his hand against his erection Zach knows he's done for.

"Wait," Zach pants.

"Uh?" Chris pants back, eyes flicking up to meet his and glowing creepily in the dim light.

"What're you doing?"

Chris laughs. ". . . You, uh, not into getting blowjobs now or something, Zach?"

Zach can't use words properly anymore, especially not with Chris, so he shoves them horizontal, kisses Chris breathless and grinds down into his cock until he groans and twists a leg around Zach's.

"You wanna fuck me," Chris says vaguely. "Mm, yeah, I wanna feel you. I miss—"

Zach silences him with a kiss, with his hand getting Chris's sweatpants and boxers out of the way.

Chris arcs up against him, half in search of friction and half to escape the seatbelt that's gotta be digging into his back. "Fuck. Do you have—?"

"Um, in my suitcase."

Chris bites his lip, draws Zach's attention to how ripe and kiss-swollen it is, to the sweat glistening his brow and in the hollow between his collarbones. Zach _really_ doesn't wanna rummage through his suitcase.

Chris's hands trail up Zach's arms, stuttering fingerpads raising goosebumps on his skin. "Fuck it. Just fuck me," he mumbles, seeks out Zach's mouth for a kiss and grapples with the fly of Zach's jeans.

It's slightly too chilly to remove the majority off their clothes, and anyway the heat of the moment is proving pretty sufficient if the sounds Chris makes as Zach works hastily spit-slickened fingers into him are any indication. Chris breathes hotly against Zach's neck and a car zooms by with a flash of headlights like lightning and then Chris gasps and rolls his hips and Zach tries desperately to slow his brain down.

"Ugh, just do it, Zach," Chris groans.

"But you're—"

"Fucking just fucking do— _unnnn_."

He's so tight. So writhing and real and familiar and not exactly ready. "Are you—?"

"Oh my God please stop talking—I fucking _want_ you. Just. Just . . ."

Zach agrees about the shutting up, fucks into him and relishes the resistance and the sounds Chris makes. Thrusts slow and deep, knows the feeling will simmer and simmer until it boils over if he can just maintain a steady pace and keep from losing his mind entirely in Chris's heat and body and eagerness and voice . . .

" _Fuck_ ," Chris says, sudden.

"Yeah?" Zach repeats the motion, faster.

"Yeah. _Yeahyeahyeahyeah_ —" Chris clutches at him blindly, practically clawing at Zach's now stifling jacket, his half open shirt. Zach angles Chris's hips up a bit, finds and easier position and fucks him harder. Chris's head whips to the side with a shout, straining against the seat cushions—all overwrought tendons and flushed skin and fluttering eyelids.

"So good, Chris. You look so fucking good," Zach growls. "Touch yourself. Come on, get yourself off. Oh _God_ , so fucking _good_ —"

Chris's hand squirms between them to grasp his leaking cock, strokes it quickly in time with Zach's thrusts and comes soon thereafter with another cut off shout, hips rolling through the aftershocks and skin sweaty and slippery under Zach's hands.

Zach can barely hear over the roar of his blood and heartbeat and emotions, thinks he discerns Chris's voice echoing untranslatable words at him. Can't comprehend it. Chris turns Zach's head to face him, stares, piercing and omnipotent. Says something in gibberish.

Zach falls apart, comes bone-shakingly hard and collapses. "Love you, too," he pants over Chris's shoulder before he can think.

*


End file.
